


Resilient

by Nyxierose



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Octavia is a fighter and finds everything she’s looking for in an unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resilient

She grows up on the edge of the ring. Her brother starts training young, and by the time Octavia is around seven, she starts tagging along. It's not like she really has anything else to do on weekends - she doesn't have any friends, most of the kids in her year at school have apparently been told not to talk to her and those who _haven't_ received that warning aren't all that interesting to her - and besides, watching Bellamy fight is _interesting_. He's not good at first, but he's young and his trainers see potential and he gets better. And by the time he's eighteen and able to compete properly, he's almost good.

Octavia, thirteen then, is jealous. Women's fighting is a thing, she knows it is, but no one's willing to take the right chances on her. One needs _connections_ to get into that world, and she doesn't have any. They all look at her and see a tiny girl with no ability, and as much as she wants to prove them wrong, she doesn't know how. She does, however, know all the training techniques. Everyone at the gym her brother trains at knows her by now, and none of them have a problem with a teenage girl taking her issues out on the punching bags after school. She's harmless, knows when and where she's not wanted, and the little sister of one of their best. It's not quite an ideal situation, but it's damn close.

A few more years pass. She practices, waits. A door nearly opens but something happens - she's never quite sure what - and she's back to her own devices again. To widen her skill set, because she's not quite sure organized boxing is her intended sport, she takes twice-a-week karate classes all through high school. She's good at that too, but not good enough to be put forward for competition, her instructor says. Good but not good enough. Story of her life.

Her calling finds her a week after her brother claims his first title. She's eighteen now, still too small but braver than she lets on, and working in a shop while she tries to figure out what she actually wants to do with herself. Uncertainty really isn't her thing, she swears, yet the universe seems to have other plans. The universe, in this case, taking the form of half a dozen people she's never seen before.

Street fighting is low, she's heard some of the guys at the gym say. She's not sure she believes them, not sure she doesn't. The gathering in a certain parking lot can't possibly be anything else, and against what little better judgment she has, she takes a little detour. If nothing else, she just wants to watch, see if the techniques are as different as she's heard. Nothing wrong with that, right?

The current match is a tall wisp of a woman, probably in her late twenties, against a smaller older woman. This alone is enough to draw Octavia closer. She makes a space for herself in the background, as she always does, and keeps her eyes locked on the fight. The technique is familiar, but both women alter it to their own advantage. The taller one has better reflexes, but the shorter one is fiercer and eventually full-on tackles her opponent. It's a sight to behold, worlds away from the "clean" fights Octavia's spent the last decade observing, and she is in love.

As the dust settles, the older woman notices the outsider and breaks from the circle. "Who the hell are you?" she asks. Her voice is low, rasping in a way that almost suggests dehydration. "What are you doing here?"

"Your style is good," Octavia says, hoping that'll be enough. "I was walking past and… I had to keep watching."

"You fight?" the older woman asks, tilting her head.

"Sorta."

"That's not an answer."

"I would if anyone would let me," Octavia shrugs. "I've trained, just… never had the chance."

"Well then." The woman turns, glancing at her group and trying to make a choice. "Lexa! You haven't sparred tonight."

A deceptively small girl steps forward. "You want in?" she asks, almost smiling.

"Yeah," Octavia says without a second thought, slipping her bag off of her shoulders. "Yeah, I do."

What follows is the most intense and painful three minutes of Octavia Blake's life.

Theory, it turns out, means absolutely nothing up against a live person who's probably been doing this since they were practically fetal. Theory means nothing when said person's technique involves sharp kicks and sharper elbows. Theory means nothing when Octavia starts bleeding a minute in and no one seems to notice let alone care. Still, she keeps going, gives as much as she can and forces herself through the pain until she can take no more and falls to the concrete, uncertain if she'll ever be able to get back on her feet again. If this is how she dies, she can't help thinking, it's a hell of an ending.

"You did well," a new voice says. She looks up and sees one of the men hovering over her, a concerned look on his face. He's a bit older than her, she figures, as scarred and marked as the others but there's a warmth to him that makes him different.

"No. I got my ass handed to me because I thought that was a good idea and-"

"But you tried," he says. He sticks one of his hands in his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled bandage that he applies to the worst of the cuts on her face. "Most people wouldn't have done that."

"Most people aren't that stupid," she mutters, shaking her head and realizing how much that little action hurts.

"That doesn't make you any less brave."

Normally, she'd interpret this sort of behavior as flirtation - and she's not sure she minds the idea, the guy's hot and still talking to her despite the fact that she's bleeding on his jeans - but right now she can't quite mentally go there. "Or any less of an idiot," she hisses.

"You have ambition. That's a start." He looks away for a moment, almost as if trying to compose himself. "Do you have somewhere safe to go?"

"What do you mean?" Either she's sending the wrong signals or she's seriously missing something.

"Most of us, when we found this group… we didn't have anyone else. It's a normal question."

"I do have somewhere, then. Just not sure if I want to go back there looking like this."

"I can take you back to my place," he offers. "If that isn't completely creepy."

"It isn't." Maybe it should be, on paper or something, but she trusts this guy. She doesn't know anything about him, but there's something about the kindness and weight of his eyes that fascinates her. And if this night goes where she thinks it will, it definitely won't be the first time.

He helps her onto her feet, lets her rest most of her weight on him and reaches down to collect her bag for her. "Do you think you can walk?"

"My feet are the only part of my body that doesn't feel like I got run over by a truck," she shrugs. "You holding me is nice though."

She can't exactly see his face, but she swears she feels him smile. "Alright then."

They don't talk on the way there, down a few side streets and up a narrow flight of stairs and into a small room where he eases her onto a battered couch and rummages through a few drawers and a cabinet for supplies before realizing he hadn't turned on the light. That problem solved, he kneels in front of her and wipes her face with a wet cloth. She takes his free hand in hers, reason unknown but it's somehow the most satisfying thing she's done in weeks. "Thank you," she says, suddenly feeling the desire to cry. "I would've been fine but-"

"It's not a big deal."

"You don't even know me."

"Maybe I want to."

She looks at him, features made more angular in the dim light, and she decides in a heartbeat that she wants the same. No - she wants everything this one will give her, every touch, every little bit of light. "I'm Octavia," she breathes.

"Lincoln," he replies, pressing his lips to hers.

She does this sort of thing on the regular, knows exactly what she's in for and how to make the best of it. While her partners have varied, there's a certain technique to being fucked into oblivion on a couch and really the only thing she needs to do is lie back and be willing. Except that this time is completely different from her routine.

She is utterly unsurprised that he can lift her - he'd damn well tried earlier, but this is different, this is her body ending up on a mattress instead and her clothes staying on longer than she expected. He exposes her slowly, watching and reaction to any hesitation, and kisses her collection of bruises. She's definitely not at her most attractive in this state, she's well aware, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's rather satisfying, just that one little detail.

"This okay?" he asks, concerned again. She's down to her tank top and underwear, freezing cold and burning hot at the same time, and his fingers are tracing little patterns on an exposed sliver of her stomach.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but… I wouldn't have come back here with you if I had a problem with this happening."

He nods, kissing her as he pushes her underwear past her hips, and she is made whole.

In the aftermath, she has no inclination to leave. Usually, after she does something like this, she runs and never looks back. This time, she lets her lover wrap her in blankets and closes her eyes and decides she's quite alright with the aftereffects of this particular set of life choices.

A week later, her wounds _mostly_ healed, she finds the group again. This time, when they see her, there is no hesitation. Uncertainty, yes, but of a different species than before.

"You sure about this?" the shorter older woman - Indra, now - asks when Octavia makes no moves to leave.

"It's an outlet," the girl replies, taking her place in the circle. "I need an outlet."

This time, she makes it nearly five minutes with Anya - the tall skinny knife-sharp woman - before one hell of a nosebleed takes her out. She wants to keep going, but she's all but physically removed from the situation and not given a choice. "What the hell?" she hisses, rolling her eyes.

"This is an outlet," Anya says, staring the younger woman up and down. "We're not trying to kill each other, Octavia. It's just a _little_ different from what you know."

"Says the woman who tried to break my nose."

"If I'd meant to, I would've." She smiles, all too satisfied with herself. "It's been a while since we've gotten new blood. You're a nice change of pace."

Something within Octavia shifts, blossoms, something new and beautiful. "I'm still surprised you guys want me."

Lincoln - sweet, kind, good Lincoln who has also fought well tonight and has surprisingly fluid technique - wraps his arms around his girl's waist from behind. "You shouldn't be."

"You're just saying that because we're sleeping together."

"You're resilient," he reminds her. "That's what matters."

She turns, kisses him, doesn't care who's watching or what they think. "Yeah," she breathes, pulling away. "I guess it's a start."

 


End file.
